Page 194 of Tangled Like Us
I haven’t been nervous about that.
I’m just nervous they won’t like me.
And I’m already lying to the people in front of me. The ones I love most. Who have no idea that I’ve been intimate with my bodyguard.
But I’m not alone in this. Thatcher and I are ensnared, and that has a comfort all its own.
I force out the words, “I want to go. Even if it’s hard.”
42
THATCHER MORETTI
“Ah, you buncha loud mouths.Statazitt’!I’m tryin’ to make a toast here.” One of my uncles raises his brash voice above the other fucking brash voices.
Songs by Lou Monte play right on top of that. “Hey Gumbaree” blaring at the current moment.
It’s all an Italian earful. And it’s home.
Sunday family dinner is a weekly gathering at my Uncle Joe’s row house. Braggiol’ already eaten, dishes cleared—after the meal, the women stay clustered around the table drinking coffee and eating cream pie.
Jane is in sight while I hang around the kitchen with Banks and the other men. More wine bottles being uncorked and poured. But my gaze is gripped onher.
How she laughs with the women, talks breezily and bows toward every person at the dining table. Making all of them feel like they’re her sole focus.
Those women are deserving of her gaze.
And Jane doesn’t realize just how much she can make people feellovedin a single glance. My mom has a hand on Jane’s arm while they talk into brighter laughter.
My grandma’s rosy cheeks are in a perpetual smile, and Nicola, my stepmom, sees me watching and mouths,we love her.
I thought she’d fit in, but seeing it happen is something else.Surreal.Overwhelming. Conflicting—because I shouldn’t be emotionally invested in this picture.
It’s supposed to only happen one time.One fucking time.
That’s all we get.
My mom catches my gaze and shoos me with the swat of her hand. Her words are inaudible from the ear-splitting commotion around me. But I read her lips:Go, go.
I rotate. Just slightly. Standing near the coffee pot, Banks and I still tower but not as much here. Most men are tall and in occupations that require us to stay fit. Bodies built.
Multiple conversations are happening at once, and I tune into the closest one. Talking about car trackers. They think paparazzi bugged my mom’s vehicle.
“How else could they’ve known she’d be at the bank?”
Guilt tries to ride me like a fucking buck-toothed hitchhiker.Don’t let it.I knew the risks of going public.
I cut in, “Paparazzi probably followed her from the shop. Her job is public information.” My mom used to be a bookkeeper at an auto mechanic shop. Until they finally let her, a woman, work as a mechanic.
“Are we sure?” Uncle Joe asks.
Banks fists a beer. “I already checked her vehicle. I didn’t find anything.”
The louder voices overtake our talk. We turn our heads.
“Youse been making toasts all fuckin’ night.”
“I don’t see you making any.”
